My fingers dug into the paperweight and as soon as creepo gave me wriggle room, I flipped and brought the weight against his head. He slumped over onto me and we crashed to the floor. My chest heaved and I gasped for breath under his weight. I couldn't talk. I couldn't think. I couldn't move. But I was alive.
Someone knocked on the door and yelled, “Savvy!”
I groaned, but Malcolm couldn’t hear me. I think it was Malcolm. It sounded like Malcolm.
“The door is locked. Open it up!”
“Okay.” My voice quivered. I put my hands against Robert’s meaty body and pushed with all my strength. Finally with one last grunt and hard shove, he rolled off. I crawled across the floor and reached up and unlocked the door. Malcolm opened it just as I fell forward.
Mission accomplished. And I was alive.
His strong arms around me had never felt so good. My head fell against his shirt, and his smell, his warmth embraced me. He pulled away. His eyes filled with love and concern, he touched the cut on my cheek. “What did that asshole do?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I grabbed his hand, ready to collapse.
He kissed my forehead and then we ran. The halls flashed by. Smells of freshly baked bread assaulted me. The kitchen. Cooks gasped. Malcolm spoke in Greek and soothed their concerns. Then fresh air brushed my skin, creating goosebumps.
I passed out from exhaustion right near the car. He lay me down in the backseat. Smoothing my hair against my face. Whispering in my ear. Kissing my cheek. Making promises.
But promises didn't mean anything to me. Not anymore.
Twenty-four
“Malcolm?” I murmured.
“Shh,” he said into my ear. “Don't talk. We’re on my boat.”
My cheek throbbed. I lifted my hand to touch it but Malcolm caught my fingers in his hand. “Don't touch it. Let me clean it up first.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?” He lowered me to the floor with one arm behind my back.
“Why me?” Last year I put off college and went to Paris with my dad. He started Spy Games and we made due. And then Malcolm entered my life and it hadn't been the same since. “What if we'd never met? Would I still be in Paris with my dad, living blissfully unaware?”
He dabbed at the cut on my cheek with a washcloth and then dipped it into a bowl of hot water, rinsing between each dab and dunk.
“I don't think you'd be blissfully unaware. You’d be unhappy and doing anything you could to find answers. Here, today, you might not like the answers you found, but you found them.”
I couldn't argue with that. I eyed the small kit he pulled out from a chest/bench.
“This gash would probably heal on its own but I don't want to chance it. You might have a scar.” He tenderly touched my skin, then rubbed numbing gel across it. Gently, he placed a butterfly Band-Aid on it. “That should do it.”
His hands ran across my shoulders. I shivered when he unzipped my dress and the cool metal ran down my back.
I pushed up even though my body cried out. “Hey!”
“Savvy, come on. This has nothing to do with you and me. This has to do with taking care of you. Let me?”
I sank back down and nodded.
“Be right back.” He kissed my forehead, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
Wincing, I slid my dress off and wrapped up in it doing the best I could to keep the important parts covered. The steam escaped from his small bathroom, the shower running at full strength. He helped me into the room.
“I got it from here,” I said.
“Okay. Call me if you need anything. I'll try and find some food but I'm not promising anything.” Then he left and shut the door.
I stepped into the stream of hot water and tried to scrub off the memories of the last twelve hours. Back in his room, I changed into his T-shirt and sweats then searched my spy bra for the camera.
It wasn’t there. I fought the rush of panic. That was the whole point of my scuffle with Robert.
I grabbed the dress from the floor and shook it out, hoping a small black camera would fall. It didn’t. I fell to my hands and knees and searched the floor, under the bed, in every corner. After running my hands over every inch of the floor, I slumped against the bed.
I’d failed my mission.
Later, I curled up next to him on his bed with a platter of crackers, cheese and beer in front of us. We munched in silence or more like devoured.
“You're not eating,” I said between bites.
“I've trained under my brother before. I assume you're half starved.”
I nodded. “Totally.”
We fell silent. I sipped the beer, letting it numb me a little bit from the inside out. I dreaded talking about anything significant, all the matters that weighed down on us from the outside in.
Right after finishing up the food, Malcolm pulled me closer. “Why don't you sleep? We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I didn't complain and tried to sleep, snug in his arms. Flashbacks of Robert’s twisted, evil face and the feel of his hands on me kept me awake. My body ached where’d he’d used me for boxing practice. Finally, I drifted off. The last thing I remembered was Malcolm kissing the side of my head and whispering, “We need to keep you out of danger.”
Every time I woke, the sunlight fell farther and deeper into the cabin until it was completely dark. Each and every muscle, bone, and joint pulled me back into Neverland. The next time I woke it was 4:00 a.m., dark, and Malcolm was still next to me, his breathing deep and even. Safety. Happiness. This is what I wanted. It would be so easy. Pack my stuff. Take off in his boat. But I couldn't leave my mom to the whims of Will and his family. Malcolm could walk away from his family and they'd still be safe. I had to somehow explain my failed mission and then I had to complete the second mission.
I reached up to touch his cheek and trace his lips. They were soft. I teased the ends of his hair and ran my fingers down the sides of his face to his neck. He grabbed my fingers and lifted them up to kiss one by one.
“I'm so glad you're okay,” he said. “That I was there.”
Was that a catch in his voice? An emotion? I pulled his head toward me. We kissed. Sweet. Innocent. But it only took a few seconds for it to deepen and turn passionate.
He broke off. “Run away with me. I have a plan in motion.”
I bit my lip, desperate to say yes. “I can’t.”
He sighed. “I fear my family won’t let me intervene in your next mission. They’ll assume my feelings will cloud my judgment and I’ll interfere.”
“That’s alright. I’ll manage.”
I rested my head against his chest. Tomorrow would be hard. We had to face his family. Would our deal be over because I failed to bring back pictures? Somehow I had to prove they still needed me. That I could do better. That I wouldn't betray them. Hopefully that would keep Mom, Dad and Constance safe and eventually this crazy nightmare would be over and we'd be a family again.
Malcolm’s breathing deepened as he slept. I wanted to bottle this night and keep it with me forever. I wanted him to remember tonight, our whispered words, and the emotional ties. I slipped out from underneath his arm, my body still sore and aching, but I needed to return and report on my mission. I took one last look at him, sleeping peacefully.
The cool morning air brushed my skin and I breathed deep, ready to face the day and the challenges I'd face. At the end of the dock, I turned up the hill, dreading the talk I needed to have with Malcolm’s family, without using him as a crutch or buffer.
I heard the boom first and then the sky burst into orange and red flames. Fiery arrows shot upwards and hungrily ate up the air. Pieces of wood flew, hitting the beach, the boats, and splashing into the sea. Black smoke billowed and blocked the early sun.
It was like the sea consumed his boat and then spit it out in pieces. I sprinted down to the dock. My cheek throbbed and every step sent pain shooting through my body. The smoke hit the back of my throat as I pushed
through the thick vapors of dark gray.
“Malcolm!”
My throat closed up and I leaned over and gagged. Bits of the white hull floated in the water, left over debris. But it wasn't. It was a piece of my life. I searched for Malcolm, any sign of his head bobbing in the water. Any second he'd come to the surface with a smile and say, “Gotcha!”
But there was nothing. No sign of him. The dark waters pitched, laughing at me, unwilling to release its victim. I stared, begging it to let him go so I could save his life. Sirens sounded far away, but with every second, drew closer. Voices echoed from on the shore, curious onlookers wanting to know what had happened. I snapped my head up and peered into the dissipating smoke, wondering how this would look. Would I look guilty? How had I survived the explosion and not Malcolm? He reached from beyond the watery grave, urging me to run, to get to safety.
My heart bursting, I turned and sprinted. My feet slapped the dock, the sound sending me a message, reminding me of one fact.
I was alive. He wasn’t.
Twenty-five
Smoke still lingered in my nostrils. The damp scent rose off my clothes and hair as I ran. I wanted. I needed to get lost. Let the coastal town wrap me up in her arms of vendors, white washed homes, and narrow streets. My chest heaved and tears blurred my vision.
Malcolm was dead.
Those three words repeated in my head. I ran harder. And longer. Ignoring the tourists I bumped, the kids I tripped over, and the head of lettuce rolling across the street. The vendors and their angry words yelled in Greek went right past me.
Malcolm was dead.
How could someone survive an explosion like that?
I kept running away from the answer even though it tugged on me, trying to yank me back to reality, back to the docks. Pain flashed through my side, screaming at me to stop. Pain felt good. After turning down street after street, my legs buckled and I fell, the pavement scratching my face and arms as I landed and rolled.
The sky filled with fluffy clouds spun above me, mocking me. I was aware of certain sounds: the sharp intake of each breath as my chest rose and fell, the pounding of my heart, and the pain jabbing through every part of me.
When an elderly man walked past and I heard his “tsk tsk,” I pushed up and leaned against the wall of a nearby store. Streaks of dirt on the wall across the street blurred in and out of focus. Malcolm’s family appeared one at a time in my mind: Edith, Bartholomew, Janelle, Will. I groaned. I had to tell them. Would their faces harden and they’d turn me away?
The walk back was long and slow, but eventually, I stood at their door. My hand paused in midair, trembling. The scrapes on my cheek and arms stung. My hand rested on the door and slowly dragged down. My fingers crossed over the grains in the wood.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The door opened and I fell into Will’s arms.
“She’s alive!” He pulled me into the house and shut the door.
The whole family surrounded me, smiling, talking, asking question after question. Janelle shouted something about food and I heard cupboards open in the kitchen. Bartholomew immediately started arguing that I needed a stiff drink. They were taking care of me, concerned, assuming their son was okay. I hated to shatter it with the truth.
“Back away. Give her some room!” Will ordered.
He led me over to the couch and I sank into the cushiony softness. I scratched my finger over and over against the smooth fabric. I tried to talk, but every time I did, they shushed me. A cool washcloth pressed against my face. Someone dabbed at my arm. Janelle stroked my hand. Did this callused family, who mocked and joked about my death to my face, care about me? And had I learned to care for them despite it all? When you love someone that should extend to the ones they care about too. Shouldn’t it?
While I debated this issue, I sensed Edith’s stare. I couldn’t look at her because everything that had happened was written on my soul, and she’d see right through me.
Will spoke. “When you didn’t return, I went to the luncheon and I couldn’t find you anywhere. Someone in the kitchen told me you’d left with a man.”
Janelle placed a plate of fruit, cheese and bread on the coffee table. “That’s when we figured Malcolm had rescued you from whatever trouble you got yourself into.”
“Trouble?” I croaked. That was putting it mildly.
“Here, drink some more.” Janelle offered me a glass.
I accepted it but couldn’t bring it to my lips. No more stalling. The heartache increased, pressing, wanting release. My ears rang with the explosion and Malcolm’s life going up in flames. “I have to tell you something…”
“Me first.” Bartholomew coughed. “When Malcolm’s boat exploded, we had no idea if you’d gone with him or not.”
For the first time, I stared at all of them, one at a time. Maybe I’d misread this family. They seemed to love and care for each other deeply. Yet, they didn’t seem bothered at all that Malcolm had died in an explosion. Had being assassins hardened them so much they couldn’t mourn the loss of their son? Or had they truly kicked him out of their family and their hearts? My grief choked in my throat and my words spit out.
“I don’t think I can do this.” If that was what this life turned them into, I didn’t want any part of it. I never wanted to stop caring about my family and the people I loved.
Edith spoke for the first time. “What kind of nonsense is that? We didn’t spend weeks training you, for you to up and quit at the first sign of trouble.”
“Trouble?” I asked, a simmering heat replacing the numb grief I’d felt since the explosion.
“The luncheon was her first real mission,” Janelle argued in my defense. “It was probably too much.”
The cane rapped on the floor. “Hogwash, I say.”
They all spoke at once, arguing about whether I was ready or not for my upcoming mission. Their words flew like bullets, pinging off one another, the heat in the room rising. Their shallow words and lack of grief caused the simmering heat in me to turn into a full boil until I burst.
“What the hell is your problem?” I jumped to my feet and pointed at all of them. “How can you sit here and argue about whether I’m ready or not. Obviously I’m not. But that’s not what matters here.” I stopped, my breaths coming hard and fast.
They all turned their attention on me.
“Never mind that you put me in the way of a madman or that he stole the camera from me and I failed the mission. Thank God Malcolm knows enough of his own twisted family to understand I might be in trouble.” My voice cracked but I pushed on. “But this isn’t about me or the stupid camera. This is about Malcolm!”
At his name, the explosion returned all over again, the boom, the heat from the flames, the burning smoke. I dropped to my knees.
Janelle placed a soft hand on my shoulder. “You’ll have to explain yourself. We’re listening.”
Edith snorted.
“I’m sorry.” The strangled truth came out, my heart breaking with every word. “I couldn’t save him. The debris. The choppy water. It was impossible to see.” I appealed to Janelle, the last of my strength dissolving and the tears that had threatened this whole time spilled down my cheeks. “I don’t understand how you can all sit here and not care.”
Janelle’s mouth twitched. “It is such a shame.”
“Yeah, we’ll miss him dearly.” Edith’s snort turned in a cackle.
“I guess we’ll have to call the funeral home!” Bartholomew could barely finish his sentence before he burst into a howl.
They all started laughing. Even Will smirked.
I backed away from them, ready to run for the door. “You guys are crazy.”
My hand was on the knob when Will spoke. “I can’t believe you fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Malcolm has been pulling that stunt since he could shoot a gun.”
“What?”
Janelle led me back to the couch. “That’s Malcolm’s disappearing act. Trust me
, the first time he pulled it we were all just as shocked. He rigged his tree house to blow when he was supposed to be spending the night in it. All because he was mad at us. I can’t even remember what for now.”
“That’s right,” Bartholomew said. “We took all his knives away from him for a whole month after scaring us like that.”
“But there was no way he could’ve gotten off the boat that fast.” Malcolm might’ve faked it before, but this was real. They had to see that.
“How long after you left the boat did it blow?” Edith asked.
“Well,” I thought back, “I left the boat and walked up the dock.”
Edith waved her hand. “Plenty of time for Malcolm to slip off the boat and onto a small dingy for this getaway. Trust me.”
I slumped back onto the couch. It was an act? Malcolm had faked his own death? Without telling me? The realization sank in. He’d ask me to run away again. He said he had a plan in motion. I was the one who said no and slipped away after he’d rescued me. That must’ve told him I didn’t care. That I was never going to run. I’d pushed him too far.
I was relieved he was alive and breathing, but the searing grief transformed into a numb disbelief.
As the next couple days passed, mainly in silence, my disbelief transformed into a quiet rage. When I obsessed about Malcolm ditching me and taking the easy way out, the dents in my bedroom wall and my aching hand suffered for it. I still had a ton of questions, but for the first time, the whole family avoided me. I tried to catch Edith alone by hanging out by the lemon bars, hoping she’d come out for a midnight snack, but she never did. Janelle would scurry away to scrub the upstairs toilet. Bartholomew would disappear into his office. And Will was rarely home.
I decided Edith was my best bet.
On the third night, out of frustration, I crept out to the kitchen and sat at the counter. The clock ticked and my temptation grew. My fingers twitched and tapped the granite. I traced the outside of the plate, itching to remove the plastic. I fiddled with the edge of the plastic wrap, slowly peeling it off, ready to drown my frustration in sugary goodness, even against my better judgment, and with the lingering memories that this family knew everything.
Heart of an Assassin (Circle of Spies Book 2) Page 11
